


Requiem for a Ghost

by phoebe_7



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-17
Updated: 2015-02-17
Packaged: 2018-03-13 10:33:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3378314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phoebe_7/pseuds/phoebe_7
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jaime Lannister sees a ghost in the Riverlands. Post-Dance of Dragons; spoilers for all five books in the series. Light Arya/Gendry; vague hints of Jaime/Brienne. Rated T for language. Two-part story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Jaime Lannister walked toward the edge of the Brotherhood’s camp, considering how it was that Brienne’s virtue managed to remain unquestioned after 10 months of her openly sharing a tent with a grown man.

Then again, when the maid looked like Brienne, and the man was missing his sword hand, he supposed neither of them were going to be viewed as particularly susceptible to temptations of that kind. _The reality, of course, was neither so humbling, nor so simple._

Since they had begun fighting and traveling with the Brotherhood Without Banners, they had taken to situating themselves on the edge of the camp, as far out of the way as possible. The Brotherhood was a great deal changed for the better. Indeed, it had become almost honorable under Ser Brynden Tully’s leadership. But, although he and Brienne had (somewhat miraculously) reached a level of mutual respect and understanding with the Blackfish, they both still found it difficult to blend in with the rest of the company. 

It was easier for a woman like Brienne and a man like him to go about their business unnoticed if they kept to the periphery. They were comfortable there, and if they pitched their tent near the young blacksmith’s forge, their proximity to the fires allowed them to benefit from the added warmth. 

The future Lady of Tarth was cleaning her armor and an interesting array of weapons, her face intent and serious as always. He smiled to himself as he approached, carrying a shirt and a tunic that he had just retrieved from one of the seamstresses. He opened his mouth to tease her by way of a greeting, when a quick darting movement in the woods nearby caught his attention.

“Brienne,” he whispered, scanning the woods. Nothing. “The woods.” She looked up and put aside her task.

“What—“ Brienne cut off her question as the source of the movement he’d seen began to emerge slowly from the trees.

Jaime froze, suddenly overwhelmed with feelings of recognition and disbelief as it became clear that the person walking to the edge of the trees was a young woman. A dark-haired young woman, with unmistakable features. _Was this how Brienne felt the first time she saw Renly’s features reborn in the blacksmith?_

He had not been surprised by anything in a very, very long time. Longer still since he’d last looked at anyone in awe. He abhorred cliché, but he couldn’t help it: for a moment, he truly felt as though he was staring at a ghost. _And for once, it was not of the haunting variety_. A white walker or a mammoth appearing in their camp could not have shocked him more.

To be sure, he had not loved Lyanna Stark as Brienne had loved Renly — he had been too infatuated with Cersei back then to be attracted to any other girl — but he had admired her just the same. He had never seen a girl who could turn men’s heads away from his sister, and he respected her for it, all the more because she did not seem to be aware of it herself. Even Rhaegar’s head had been turned, and that was no mean feat.

He had not known Lyanna Stark very well or for very long, but he remembered her vividly. Her person had been branded into his memory somehow, although he had not thought of her in quite some time. She’d been beautiful in a way he never thought a Northern girl could be. Quite the opposite of Cersei in every way, with her dark hair and easy approachability.

She had intelligent grey eyes that were more inclined to amusement than scorn — but, when provoked, they had been one of the few things that could give her brother Brandon pause.

Her figure was lithe and feminine like Cersei’s, but in the North she had learned a kind of grace that his sister never quite managed to achieve, even when she became queen. _Not that he had minded Cersei’s gracelessness when he was fucking her all through their adolescence. Or most of their adulthood_. In the end, though, he had come to mind it very much indeed.

Cersei had shown off her assets from an early age, as girls did in the South, but Ned Stark’s beloved sister had always been modestly, almost conservatively dressed. And yet, to look at her, you never noticed, never would have thought her prude or uptight.

Lyanna never seemed burdened with insecurity as Cersei had always been. _Burdened with something, he could tell, but never insecurity_. She had an air of strength and self-reliance about her that had astonished him. He had never thought to appreciate those traits in a woman before. But they suited Lyanna Stark. She was cleverer than all her brothers put together, more patient than Brandon, and more lively than the quiet Ned. _And gods, but that girl could ride_ . . .

The first time he had seen Lyanna Stark, she had borrowed her brother Brandon’s horse and ridden him hard through forest and field at Harrenhal. It was much too large a mount for her, but she handled him with ease, flushed and smiling as she approached him and his father to pay her respects. Even Lord Tywin had been impressed with her, Jaime could tell, though his grim and formidable father would never have admitted it.

It struck him at the time that she looked as natural on a horse as he felt with a sword in his hand. _But now she won’t ever ride again, just as I won’t ever wield a blade properly_.

There’d been whispers that she grew up practicing swords with her brothers, and more than once he’d heard that she was as good a shot with a weirwood bow as any Northern man.

If he was honest, he had never truly believed that she’d been kidnapped by Rhaegar. Not only because he knew Rhaegar better than most people, and knew what kind of man he was, but also because he couldn’t help suspecting that she had gone willingly, though he had no idea why she should. Somehow, he could not bring himself to believe that Lyanna Stark would have allowed herself to be kidnapped, even by the dragon prince.

As these recollections gathered in his mind, it occurred to him that the young woman in front of him — _or was she a hallucination?_ — couldn’t possibly be Lyanna. Not because he knew Lyanna Stark to be dead (which, of course, he did), but because of her eyes.

There was a steeliness, a sort of contained fury, to this girl’s gaze that he’d never seen in Lyanna’s eyes, though they were the same rich stormy color, set within the same face, and framed by the same dark, windblown hair.

Her simple tunic was violet, _an odd color for a Stark of Winterfell_ , and although it hugged her body closely, the shape was such that it seemed more likely the result of limited materials than a design meant to flatter. In peacetime she would have been all long limbs and lean muscle; but it was wartime, and even Lannisters did not eat regular meals. She was skinny in a way that made good men want to protect young ladies and wrap blankets around them. And yet, there was something about her that made him quite certain that she didn’t need — or want — protecting. _Skinny, but strong_.

That, in itself, was nothing out of the ordinary. What intrigued him was the equally skinny sword, _a Braavosi blade, by the look of it_ , hanging at her hip. Highborn ladies did not carry swords; even Lyanna Stark had not. _Brienne did, of course, but that wasn’t the same._ Had the honorable Ned Stark fathered more than just the one bastard?

It was a hilarious thought but, no, he did not actually believe that Ned Stark had fathered a second bastard. _Or a first, for that matter_.

Jaime knew Sansa Stark, whose features overwhelmingly favored the Tullys, and this was not she. There had been no confirmed word of the younger Stark sister since Ser Ilyn Payne had beheaded her father — only rumored sightings of her with the Hound near Saltpans and the Twins — and she had long been presumed dead. _Though, that had not stopped Roose Bolton from marrying his bastard to an imposter_.

_Arya_. Arya was her name. What was she, nine, ten years old when her father was named Hand of the King? _How in Seven Hells could she have escaped from King’s Landing?_ Surely a girl that young could not have evaded capture and survived so long without a father or brothers to protect her. _And yet . . ._

And yet. Here she was, very much alive and very much a Stark, looking directly at him. For someone so skinny and so young, her eyes had a clarity and directness to them that he found unsettling . . . and not a little captivating.

He could feel Brienne next to him, fidgeting noisily as only an armored amazon could. He would have smiled, but for some reason he thought the she-wolf in front of him would not appreciate it. Still, given how much his own disposition had changed since the start of the war, he wanted her to know that he meant her no harm. He simply gazed back, eyebrows raised slightly in question.

He saw the light of recognition in her expression as she noticed him, followed by shock as she noticed his absent hand. When most people saw it, they flinched or cringed with disgust, and he could almost feel himself being lowered in their estimation.

But not this girl, not Arya Stark, _if it really is her_. She only registered surprise and then something like awe mixed with curiosity. _She’s trying to work out how it possibly could have happened, who could have done it_. Jaime felt oddly pleased at her reaction.

But then her eyes caught sight of someone or something else, her gaze shifted, and his maimed right arm was forgotten as she stared intently past him. She looked like she might laugh and weep at the same time.

After a moment, she turned abruptly and walked away in the opposite direction, her frame exuding uneasiness in a way that suddenly made her seem several years younger. It soon became clear why.

“Arya.” _Well, that answers that question._ She didn’t turn around, and started to walk faster. The blacksmith shed his apron as he walked after her.

Jaime was willing to bet all the gold in Casterly Rock that the blacksmith was one of Robert Baratheon’s numerous bastards. Given his youth, it was no small wonder that Brienne had mistaken him for Renly; there was clearly Baratheon blood running through the boy’s veins. _Hidden depths, too, no doubt_. Wartime or not, it wasn’t every day that you saw a bastard blacksmith presume to call a highborn lady by her given name. _And yet he does not seem presumptuous_ . . .

“Arya, wait.” His voice broke slightly, and she stopped, but did not turn around. The blacksmith briefly broke into a jog, and slowed as he came up behind her. Jaime could see his shoulders rise and fall, as if he was taking a deep breath, to prepare himself. For a while neither one of them moved.

After a few moments, the blacksmith gently put a hand on her shoulder. Arya flinched ever so slightly, but caught herself and stilled. Slowly, the boy put his other hand on her other shoulder, and gently began to turn her around to face him. As he did, her shoulders began to tremble, and then shake slightly, as if she were not quite succeeding at holding back tears.

Jaime stole a look at Brienne, and found her to be quite as transfixed as he was, although no one else in their camp seemed to notice the scene unfolding in front of them.

He turned back to see the boy lift Arya Stark’s face up to meet his own. Jaime had seen him working in the forge and even talked to him about his work a few times. He knew his steel, and had a talent for adapting armor or a blade to your unique specifications, while somehow also making it feel lighter to wear. _Gendry, his name was. A Waters, born in King’s Landing_. He’d seen the brute force with which Gendry hammered steel into fine tools of warfare, _a strength he no doubt inherited from his royal father_ , and was amazed at how tenderly he held her face in his hands now.

In that instant, it struck Jaime that Cersei had never loved him at all — and that he had never loved her either. He had no way of knowing whether the blacksmith and the Stark girl were in love with each other, but he had just seen more tenderness and vulnerability in one moment of theirs than he and his twin sister had shown each other in their entire lives.

He was abruptly broken out of his thoughts as the blacksmith barked some exclamation of surprise. _So much for tenderness_. Arya Stark had sucker-punched him and was now pummeling his chest and abdomen with furious little fists. Jaime watched in wonder as Gendry made no move to defend or extract himself; he simply took it. Almost as if he felt he deserved it.

_The roles of the fathers are reversed in the children_. Jaime almost smiled, recalling how Ned Stark had so often withstood Robert’s blustery verbal assaults just as stoically as the blacksmith now withstood Arya’s physical one. 

Gendry endured the body blows for several minutes, until at last she began to tire herself out, finally crumpling against him, her shoulders beginning to shake once more. Jaime considered that her quiet sobs may have been the result of hunger and exhaustion as much as emotion.

Gendry enveloped her in his arms, his larger, more muscular frame dwarfing her own. Jaime wondered if he could be so patient in the same situation. For Arya Stark, or Brienne, perhaps. Certainly for Myrcella. _But not Cersei. Not anymore_.

A nudge from Brienne caused him to look up at her. “Jaime,” she said in a half-whisper, with a slight nod toward the edge of their camp where Arya had first appeared.

His eyes widened when he saw why: a monstrous wolf — _a direwolf, bloody hell_ — was wandering into the camp, sniffing and searching. They watched in tense silence as the beast peered back at them, caught a scent, and trotted calmly toward Arya and Gendry, who were still huddled in an embrace.

As the direwolf approached them, Arya stiffened slightly, as if sensing its presence, and turned her head to face it. Her entire person seemed somehow bolstered by the sight of it, and Jaime noticed Gendry put an arm protectively around her waist, even as a smile slowly spread across her face. If the young blacksmith felt any fear on his own account, he did not show it.

“Nymeria!” she greeted the direwolf cheerfully. _Seven hells, it’s her pet. The one that bit Joffrey._

Nymeria walked right up to them, greeting each one with calm but unmistakable affection. Gendry shook his head and smiled in disbelief, though it was unclear whether his reaction was directed at girl or beast. Jaime and Brienne both glanced around the camp, and then shared a look of confusion, as if looking to each other for confirmation that the entire camp had indeed somehow failed to notice the arrival of Arya Stark and her direwolf. Which, of course, it had.

Jaime could not help marveling at the fact that a chil— _no, a young lady, now_ — had managed to elude capture (and worse) for so long, first at the hands of his sister and the gold cloaks, and later at the hands of his formidable father, and even the Mountain. _How caught up in his own pride and destructive infatuation must he have been to have overlooked such a remarkable girl before?_

He cringed to think of it. Then chuckled when he recalled that, at one point during his captivity, his own safety had depended entirely on the mistaken assumption that Arya was being held captive in King’s Landing. At Brienne’s inquiring look, he explained as much.

“What a farce we were, the whole lot of us,” he concluded, shaking his head, his expression filled with equal parts humor and disgust.

“It was rather less amusing at the time, as I recall,” she reminded him, slightly chastened.  _Brienne and her oaths, so very serious_. He smiled.

“Let’s go find some dinner.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

It wasn’t until the next day that Jaime encountered Arya Stark up close. He had just finished a late breakfast and was studying a map of the Riverlands when she approached.

She walked right up to where he was sitting and stopped, but said nothing. He looked at her inquiringly, as he reflexively rose to stand out of courtesy. Her face registered no small amount of annoyance when he did this. She studied his face intently for a moment, before speaking.

“You are the Kingslayer,” she said, not unkindly. He had always bristled at the nickname, but for some reason it did not bother him when she said it. Perhaps because she did not say it out of judgment or contempt. She said it matter-of-factly, the way you would call a tea kettle a tea kettle, simply because that’s what it is. He nodded as he replied.

“And you are Arya Stark.” It was odd, but at his confirmation of her name she seemed to relax a little.

“What happened to your hand?” she asked, and again he was surprised at himself for not taking offense.

“A fat Dothraki named Zollo cut it off, at the order of Vargo Hoat, on the way to Harrenhal,” he replied. Her eyes lit up briefly with recognition.

“You must have been there after we were.” Jaime looked at her in wonder. _Unbelievable_. And yet, everything was utterly believable coming from her own lips, matter-of-fact as she was. _But who did she mean by “we?”_

“You were at Harrenhal,” he asked, though it sounded more like a statement.

“Yes,” she confirmed, taking a seat next to him. He resumed his former seat.

“How did you ever manage to escape King’s Landing?” he asked quietly, making no effort to hide his blunt curiosity. Arya’s face slowly morphed into a wan smile, and her eyes became distant for a moment, before returning to their usual clarity.

“Why should I tell you?” she asked him. Like everything else she’d said, it was a straightforward question, borne of neither malice nor suspicion. Jaime nodded in understanding.

“My father is dead,” he began bluntly. Her surprise at this revelation was apparent, her eyes snapping up to meet his. It intrigued him that she hadn’t heard this piece of intelligence, and Jaime wondered for the hundredth time where she’d been for the past few years.

“My brother Tyrion was accused of Joffrey’s murder, and has fled Westeros,” he finished sadly, staring at nothing as he remembered parting with his brother. . . . _she's been fucking Lancel and Osmund Kettleblack, and probably Moon Boy for all I know_ . . .

“And Cersei?” Arya prompted him, her voice taking on a steely tone that caused him to look up at her face. What he found there made him shiver.

He had seen coldness and fury before, but never like this, never in eyes so young. He suddenly understood how Arya could have survived. At that moment, the knight in him, the squire in him who had been knighted by Ser Arthur Dayne, the Kingslayer in him, deep down, understood how dangerous she was, even if he could hardly believe it. He had no doubt that, given the chance to kill Cersei, she could, and would do so. He spoke frankly.

“Cersei has been tried for treason. She invoked her right to a trial by combat, and summoned me to act as her champion. I burned the letter.” He wasn’t sure why he confided that last bit to Arya Stark, but he did.

“To this day, I do not know if she still lives. I have abandoned the Kingsguard, and for many moons now my only objective has been to help Lady Brienne keep her oath to your mother, to find your sister and deliver her safely back to her family.” Arya watched him as he spoke, considering him carefully as she absorbed every word. It unnerved him, but he found that he could not look away from her.

“Did you have any involvement in the Red Wedding?” she inquired evenly. He wasn’t sure whether her cool steadiness was more or less alarming than if she had accused him and raged at him instead.

“No. I was held captive, first at your lady mother’s command, and later at Harrenhal. I had no notion of what my father was planning with the Freys and the Boltons. Lady Brienne will confirm my whereabouts and lack of correspondence.” Arya glanced at his stump as if she might find some measure of confirmation there as well.

“Did you push my brother Bran out of a tower?” she asked quietly. Jaime sighed.

“I did.” She nodded at his confirmation. He wasn’t sure why, but something in the girl’s manner made you want to tell the truth, made you feel like she would know instantly if you didn’t . . . _and that it would be infinitely worse for you than whatever the truth was_ . . .

“Do you regret it?” _She's been fucking Lancel and Osmund Kettleblack, and probably Moon Boy for all I know_ . . .

“I do.” They sat in silence for several moments, as she studied him and considered his responses. He wondered why she hadn’t asked him _why_ he pushed her brother. She looked at his stump again, dwelling on it for a few moments before she spoke. Jaime thought he recalled that most girls of marriageable age, which Arya certainly was by now, did not stop talking for more than two seconds together. But not her.

“What will you do after you find my sister?” Of all the things he imagined she might ask him next, that had not been one of them. There was a confidence to her tone, as if she knew for certain that Sansa was still alive. _What does she know that we don’t?_ And yet, she had not heard about father’s death. Curious.

Certainly he had thought about what he might do if he and Brienne ever fulfilled their oath, but with his father dead, his family scattered, and his position abandoned, his options were muddled.

“I don’t know. Perhaps I might cross the narrow sea and search for my brother.” He still didn’t believe that Tyrion had murdered Joffrey. Hypothetically, he supposed that if Tyrion could kill their formidable father, killing the much less formidable Joffrey would be easy, but in truth he knew that for Tyrion, it all came down to Tysha.

Joffrey had disgusted Tyrion, to be sure, but he was too stupid and impatient to strike the kind of blow that their father had. Tyrion was not violent by nature and, unsurprisingly, given his physical limitations, always preferred the use of words to weapons. Their father, and perhaps Cersei, were the only ones who had ever been capable of inspiring anything like vengeance in him.

“You wouldn’t go back to King’s Landing?” Of that much, he was certain.

“Not while a Baratheon or a Lannister holds the iron throne, no. Even if I wanted to, I’ve broken my oath as a member of the Kingsguard. I’m an outlaw now, same as you.”

“You broke it before, and you still went back,” she reminded him. Indeed he had. But the reminder was not scathing or meant to injure; she was simply trying to follow his logic.

“Yes,” he smiled grimly, “as everyone is always in a hurry to remind me. But then Robert took the throne and married my sister, so I was pardoned.” Arya nodded slowly, taking in all he had said. Something in her eyes changed then, and when she spoke, she looked more like her aunt than ever.

“The mad king murdered my grandfather and my uncle,” she offered.

“Aye, he did,” Jaime confirmed quietly. “I was there.” She nodded, and he once again felt a sudden need to explain. “Five hundred men stood silently and watched him torture your uncle and your grandfather to death. None of us did anything to stop it. Because of that oath.”

“Oaths killed my father, my grandfather, my uncles, my aunt, my mother, and my brother. I find I care little for oaths.” She paused for a moment. “There is only one oath that matters in the North.” _The Night’s Watch_ , he thought. _Her brother_. “But it is actions that matter, not words. We keep the old ways. The North remembers.”

Yes, it certainly did. But one’s family did not become the richest and most powerful entity in the realm by remembering. His own native South had made a habit of forgetting things like old gods and wargs and giants and Others until they became fairytales that no one but children and old nurses believed.

“Are you saying that you don’t despise me for breaking my oath and killing the mad king?” he asked lightly, almost rhetorically, because the idea of her _not_ despising him could only be a joke.

“Not for that, no.” He couldn’t help but smile at her honesty, and was surprised when she continued. Whatever test she had given him, he seemed to have passed. “We snuck out, you know, pretending we were recruits for the Night’s Watch. We walked right out the King’s Gate.” _Again, with the_ “ _we_.”

“When the gold cloaks came for me, my dancing instructor held them off with a wooden training sword so I could escape. I never saw him again,” she recalled sadly.

“Dare I ask why your dancing instructor had a wooden training sword?” Jaime wondered. Arya’s eyes brightened and she very nearly smiled.

“Because he was teaching me the water dance,” she explained, waiting for him to connect the double meaning. Ah yes, the Braavosi fighting style, and the blade in particular, would suit her very well indeed. He smiled and nodded in acknowledgement, for the first time considering how a friendship between the she-wolf and Brienne could be good for both of them — good for them all.

“A Night’s Watchman found me right before they killed my father. He cut off my hair, and said he would take me back to Winterfell on his way north. I used a fake name and pretended to be a boy so it would be safer to travel.” _Clever girl_.

“Who do you mean, ‘we’?” he asked. Arya briefly glanced away from him.

“Gendry and me,” she replied, and he saw that she was following the blacksmith with her eyes as he went about his business at the forge nearby, oblivious. “Yoren was protecting Gendry, too,” she continued, as she considered Gendry thoughtfully, “but the gold cloaks killed him before we could ask him why.”

“Gold cloaks?” at his question, she turned her attention back to him.

“They came after Gendry twice, but thanks to Yoren, we escaped both times. I thought they were after me, but it was Gendry they wanted. After the second time, we traveled north on our own until we were captured by the Mountain and taken to Harrenhal.” Her expression darkened.

At first, Jaime was too stunned to inquire further. He had no doubt that the blacksmith would confirm her story. She really _had_ escaped Harrenhal. The Mountain had her and he didn’t even know it. It was all he could do not to laugh out loud at the sheer absurdity of it.

“How did you manage to escape from Harrenhal?” he asked.

“I was serving as Lord Bolton’s cup bearer,” she said, and here Jaime finally did laugh out loud. Her brow furrowed slightly in confusion at his reaction, as she explained. “I didn’t want to be stuck with the Mountain after Lord Bolton rode north, so we snuck out in the middle of the night with two of Lord Bolton’s best mounts.” _We, again_. If she was anything like her aunt had been, it would come as no surprise that she knew her way around a horse.

“You and Gendry snuck out,” he clarified. As if it was as simple as that. She nodded.

“And another boy who had been bound for the Wall, yes.”

“You just walked out. Without being seen by a knight or sentry.” Jaime knew Harrenhal — and the Mountain — well enough to know that there would be virtually no corner of the stronghold unobserved by guards. Sneaking out would be next to impossible.

“Oh, I killed the guard,” she said, as if he was dim not to have come to that conclusion himself.

Jaime glanced at the Braavosi sword she wore and looked back at her. “You killed a guard?” Arya shrugged.

“Certainly, I did. He wasn’t the first man I’d killed.” _Nor the last, I dare say_. She paused for a moment, her attention drawn briefly to the blacksmith and then back again. “Gendry can kill a man well enough in a fight, but I don’t think it would sit right with him otherwise. Not that he liked me doing it either, mind, but it had to be done. We couldn’t stay there.”

It seemed that Arya Stark was as practical and resourceful as Brienne was noble and stubborn. Not at all like her sister Sansa. He wondered how a House as old and dutiful as the Starks could produce such wildly different young women.

“Well, it sounds like you’ve had almost as much fun as I have since the war started,” he said grimly. Her eyes went immediately to his stump.

“Almost,” she agreed, almost smiling. “But not quite.” Again it struck him how much the clarity and directness of her gaze reminded him of her aunt. “You were the youngest man ever to be appointed to the Kingsguard. But you were the first born son, and you would have inherited everything. You’d be Lord of Casterly Rock right now, with your father dead. Why did you want to join at all?” There was a faint hint of urgency to her question that surprised him. As if much depended on his answer.

“It was simple, really. My father had intended to betroth me to your Aunt Lysa, who, I’m sorry to say, was never the equal of your mother in any respect,” he replied, enjoying the astonishment on her face. He never particularly liked Lady Catelyn, for the Tullys were even more blindly dutiful than the Starks, and Lady Catelyn had always lacked the dry sense of humor that made some Starks and other northerners tolerable.

“When I found out, my sister and I decided that I should join the Kingsguard to prevent it.” There was a hint of confusion on her face, but it soon dissipated.

“ _Oh_ ,” it dawned on her. “Because you’d have to forswear your inheritance. And of course you’d be forbidden to marry.”

“Precisely. Even if my father had somehow been able to convince Aerys to allow me to marry — which, considering the man my father was, did not seem impossible — your grandfather never would have agreed to any arrangement without my inheritance. I was desperate not to marry Lysa, but it really didn’t matter who it was. I did not want to marry, and I would have acted the same. Even if it had been your other aunt, Lyanna — who I respected and admired — I probably still would have sworn the oath.”

“Do you regret it? Or doesn’t it matter now, since you’re an outlaw.” He considered her question, which had tormented his thoughts ever since he left King’s Landing to end the siege at Riverrun. _She's been fucking Lancel and Osmund Kettleblack, and probably Moon Boy for all I know_ . . .

Only recently had he truly come to terms with his decision. Now that Cersei was no longer a central focus of his life, he was at last able to comprehend how much it had affected the entire realm, by virtue of the infamous act it had put him in position to carry out.

Not for the first time he was grateful to have one fundamental reason for his lack of regret; one that was greater than Cersei, greater than family, greater even than the hand he had lost, and ultimately made his answer a simple one. _Though perhaps he wouldn’t mention it to Brienne just yet_.

“No, I don’t regret it. I would undoubtedly have made Lysa Tully as miserable a husband as she would have made me a wife. But the truth is, it allowed me to accomplish the one thing in my life that I know, without doubt or qualification, was absolutely right, and I know in my soul that I am the only man who would have done it.”

“Killing the mad king,” Arya supplied. He nodded in assent.

“I never regretted killing Aerys, and I don’t now. For me, it was like your guard at Harrenhal. It had to be done. If others couldn’t stomach it, then I certainly could. What I couldn’t stomach was what he did to your uncle and your grandfather, and many others besides.”

“But this is not one for the songs,” he continued. “There has never been any love lost between your house and mine, and my father, my sister, and I seem to have gone out of our way to make things worse at every opportunity. So you would be well within your rights not to believe a word I have said.

“Your Uncle Brandon was a lot more like King Robert than he was like your father — to her last breath I doubt your lady mother had any idea how lucky an escape she made there — but no man deserves what Aerys did to him and to Lord Rickard.” For several minutes they sat silently, lost in their own thoughts of grief and regret.

“Thank you,” Arya replied quietly after a while. Jaime was astonished.

“For what?”

“For killing the mad king. For not abandoning your brother, or Lady Brienne. For treating Gendry like a skilled blacksmith and not a bastard.” Her reasons were all the more powerful for their utter simplicity. After another lengthy pause, she continued.

“I will never forget what you did to my brother, but wars are not simple, and people are even less so. Wars are not fought in black and white; they are a muddle of a thousand different greys. You have indeed done some horrible things, but then, so have I. And I don’t recall you ever lying to me or my family. I think we could help each other.”

Jaime was speechless for a few moments, unable to believe what he was hearing. But, as ever, Arya’s matter-of-factness forced him to. _Horrible things indeed. What horrible things have you done, my lady?_ He new she wasn’t referring to actions taken in self-defense, just as he knew she wasn’t referring to him killing Aerys.

“I can hardly believe that I have earned anything like an alliance with you, my lady, but I know I can speak for Lady Brienne when I say that we are honored to accept.” He extended a hand and she shook it in acknowledgement.

“In return, as a sign of good will, allow me to give you the answer to a question that has gone unaddressed for far too long.”

“And what might that be?”

“Why the gold cloaks were hunting for your blacksmith.” At this Arya’s eyes flashed before locking their piercing gaze upon his own.

“Tell me,” she answered quickly.

“Has your blacksmith ever mentioned meeting your father, or Jon Arryn before the war began?” Jaime inquired. Arya looked uneasy.

“Yes, he mentioned meeting both men, first Lord Arryn, and then my father, when they were Hand of the King.” Jaime nodded at her confirmation.

“That confirms what I already knew to be true. Your blacksmith is the natural son of Robert Baratheon.” At this, Arya’s calm, measured countenance finally broke. She gasped and her eyes immediately found Gendry, still working in the forge.

“You are young, so you only knew King Robert when he was old and fat and, frankly, a shell of his former self. But, like your father, I knew him when he was young, when he could swing a warhammer with all the fury of the old gods and the new, and the resemblance is almost as striking as your resemblance to your aunt. He is unmistakably Robert’s son.”

At this last reassurance, Arya abruptly rose and was about to take off running to find Gendry, but Jaime grabbed her wrist before she could rush off.

“My lady, you must be extremely careful. He will need your protection more than ever in the coming years. If the wrong people discover who Gendry’s father was, it would put him in very grave danger.” With that Arya covered his hand with her own and nodded resolutely to express her appreciation. When he let go of her wrist, she walked with determined strides toward the forge.

 

* * *

 

Jaime stood at the entrance of the forge for a moment, deciding not to make himself known just yet. He quietly watched Arya Stark as she quietly watched her blacksmith, standing next to him while her gaze followed his hands and his hammer as they worked, slowly and methodically creating tools out of shrapnel.

It was clear that she was no stranger to the process, handing him a tool or a rag from time to time, moving this way and that, in practiced anticipation of when and where he needed space. Neither of them spoke, but there was no awkwardness to the silence. They were totally and completely at ease with each other.

Well, _she_ was, at any rate. Jaime hadn’t noticed at first, but every now and then, when Arya would turn to reach for something, or move away to accommodate his movements, Gendry would steal a glance at her, as if he were checking to make sure she was really there at all. 

In his life, Jaime had never been self-conscious until he’d returned to King’s Landing without a hand. It was an alien feeling, and truly humbling, and when he was at his lowest, it could be almost paralyzing. This recently acquired knowledge of soul-crushing shame and self-doubt made it easier for him to sense it in others, including, as it happened, the quiet, broad-shouldered blacksmith working in front of the fire.

It was cold, but he worked shirtless, as many smiths did, to make the heat of the fire slightly more bearable. Which seemed perfectly logical, unless you were a young man of nine and ten, with a man’s desires, little knowledge of women, and a girl of marriageable age constantly moving in and out of your personal space. Then it seemed more like lunacy bordering on torture.

Every time she moved close to him, to get a better view of his work or to shield herself momentarily from the intense heat of the fire, Jaime could see the muscles tense up in his shoulders and back, betraying something like fear — the sweet, exhilarating, terrible fear that only a girl can inspire. And yet Arya carried on watching and helping and moving, oblivious to the emotional tempest raging on her behalf.

Ever since Arya had appeared in their camp with her direwolf on her heels, Jaime had been intrigued by their relationship. (Not least because it was considerably less alarming to ponder than his own strange relationship with a member of the opposite sex. _Such that she is_.)

Gendry had seemed like a good, sturdy lad, but nothing out of the ordinary apart from his not inconsiderable skills as a smith and his striking Baratheon features. Plenty of royal bastards and skilled smiths had come before him, each as unremarkable as the others. Since he and Arya had reunited, however, something about him had changed, though Jaime couldn’t quite put his finger on what it was.

No one knew better than Jaime that war made for strange bedfellows, but this bastard blacksmith with the face and hammer of a king, and this highborn lady with her sword and her wolf and her aunt’s lovely form had, rather impossibly, found each other . . . and, even more impossibly, survived.

The way they interacted with each other — at once open, possessive, intuitive, content, hesitant, fierce and, for his part, terrified — was utterly remarkable, and unlike anything Jaime had ever seen. And it made him feel something he hadn’t felt since the day Ser Arthur Dayne touched a sword to his shoulder in the Kingswood — something like hope.

 


End file.
